The Booty of a Motorcycle
by FiddlingCrispo
Summary: Seventh Year. A certain drunken and insane Sirius Black marauded his way into a muggle garage and jinxed a motorcycle. Of course, he never knew what awaited him afterwards, what with Remus being where he wasn't supposed to be, doing what he wasn't to do.


The Booty of A Motorcycle

A Harry Potter fanfic, Marauder era

Summary: Seventh Year. A certain drunken and insane Sirius Black marauded his way into a muggle garage and jinxed a motorcycle. Of course, he never knew what awaited him afterwards, what with Remus being where he wasn't supposed to be and doing what he was anything but willing to do. Rated M for alcohol.

Disclaimer: Fact has it that Rowling owns and wins at her HP universe. Let's just say she lends me a few characters here to meddle with.

It's the Seventh Year. Aka the last year at Hogwarts and under the caring glares and tsks of dear old goggling McGonagall. And the year's now more than halfway through. Already.

Well, still three months to go before the clearing-out of the dormitory, the ultimate matrimonial taming of James Potter, 'ex'-best mate and present-day Evans snogger, and Peter's alcohol-addled outburst of how he doesn't want to part with his Marauding Gang for Life.

As if any of them does. Sirius's shoulders gave a dittoing shrug. Not that it was top-expressive to shrug about things when you are lying stretched out, on your bed and in a supposedly deserted dorm that used to be The Most Sacred Birthplace of Universe-Class Mischief.

It's OK. Three more months he can squander and endure. Three more full moons he can savour and roam under with Remus, as monster and as boy.

'Sulking again, Padfoot?'

Sirius exhaled a lungful of withheld air like cigarette smoke. That done, he slid his eyes towards the foot of his four-poster without bothering to alter his position within. Remus is no wolf; he is a cat, because only cats can and like to steal upon you without making a sound. And hell, Remus even crossed his arms like a watchful cat folded its front paws.

'You bet, Wolfy Kitty.'

Remus raised an eyebrow. The way he leant against Sirius's bedpost made his head tilt slightly to one side and his hair fall not so slightly over said side of his face. Stance aside, Remus had this particular aura about him that, if translated into straight words, would be something between 'so what?' and 'are you again out of your wonky rocker?'

As such, Sirius felt himself trapped. Outwardly, though, he resorted to the loud and brash bent he was famous and infamous for.

'Yeh, I _am _sulking, alright? I'm bloody bored. No Snivellus hexing, no Hogsmeade outing, Prongsie's got his flaming antlers grasped by our fairy Lily, and Moony's still a fortnight away till I can chase his tail and greet him with countless Eskimo kisses.'

'Well, I didn't know someone could lie on his back the legs-crossed-and-hands-in-pockets way and meanwhile fantasise about scenarios that are anything but boring,' said Remus dryly, although a hint of smile tugged at the curved line of his mouth and reminded Sirius vividly of some sitter in some highly admired muggle oil painting. 'Anyway, Pads, you ought to go out more often if you're bored with sulking at the dorm ceiling.'

Like Remus was the one to tap Sirius on the forehead about the importance of outdoor excursions. Sirius snorted, uncrossed his legs, and pointed with one big toe at Remus, who had at least a trio of books stashed between his chest and his crossed arms.

'If your "going out" means "into the library", Moony, I'm off. Me and the library ceiling, you know, if we ever hit it off, Madam Pince would perish of highly concentrated jealousy.'

'Yeah, yeah, that's all very funny,' Remus rolled his eyes before sitting down on the bed, using his triple layers of books to ward off Sirius's less than decent prodding toes. 'You know the biggest mistake I ever made was bring you to the library when you said you were bored. No, Pads, I mean you ought to go out to meet people, talk with them, and see stuff. Maybe you can visit a muggle town, provided that you keep your wand hidden and your manners recycled.'

'I'm not going on my own. You have to come with me, hide my wand and recycle my manners.'

'I can't, Pads. I got landed with Head Boy duties when James decided to go on a strike "in honour of his successful proposal to his beloved maiden" and dragged Lily to Merlin knows where for Merlin knows what. Ask Peter if he's available.'

Sirius un-pocketed his hands and clutched at his head, 'Marinated Merlin on a skewer, Moony, I swear I'll kill Prongs for enslaving you so. All right, whatever. Until then you'll have to submit to your fate and act as Dumbledore's faithful sheriff boy. Oh miserable Mooooooony, fettered, poor labouring Mooooooooony~'

He sing-songed his way out of bed and gave Remus a little pat on the head. Remus made a protesting effort to duck, but Sirius, taking advantage of Remus's seated position, pinned him down in the duvet with a rather canine-like lurch.

'Please, Head Boy Mooooony, help me make my bed before my blankets strangled Prongsie's to death!'

o.O.O.O.o.O.O.O.o

'Hey, fancy a dance with me, _smoochytarts_?'

When his system was alcohol-free and his brain apparently sane and functioning, Sirius was of the opinion that his devilish winks and smirks were devilishly alluring. When he was drunk, smashed and without a perpetually sober Remus there to hide his wand and salvage his manners, well, it wasn't like he could restrain himself from flashing winks and smirks of said nature at anyone – anything that stood vertical, in or around his way, male or female, people or street pillar.

Maybe that was why, or how he had gone past being devilishly alluring and stumbled into being shamelessly off-putting.

It was late. Very. Well past midnight, for Merlin and his marinated skewer's sake. And Sirius was in a muggle pub, or had been a moment ago, because he had been sure that what he addressed as smoochytarts were actually two girls and not his double vision of the wigged bartender.

Which made him wonder why he was now lying spread out on the pavement, outside the pub, and with head ringing from the memento of a certain indignant scream.

He stared up at the sky. Dark blue, with little stars, like the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall that matched Dumbledore's robes. Like the patch of little freckles on Remus's face.

Bugger. It was all Remus's idea. Remus had told him to go to a muggle town, to talk with people and see stuff, which he did. Remus had _not_ told him to end up in a pub, drink himself silly and throw winks and more-than-daring implications at the innocuous population. Remus did not ask him to do it.

Which he did.

Lying on his back on the pavement, his hands in his jeans pockets, his legs crossed, and his eyes gazing up at the ceiling of a midnight sky, Sirius chuckled, in as lucid a tone as a drunken Black mind could summon, if lucidity was for the present an accessible option on his mind-menu at all.

This was fun, this visit to the muggle pub. It wasn't like The Three Broomsticks. The atmosphere was different. In The Three Broomsticks you get a Butterbeer or some Remus's-glare-worthy stuff plus a seat, and all around were your schoolmates or professors or some holidaying authority figure from the Ministry; in the muggle pub, you have nothing but Remus's-glare-worthy stuff to order, and girls, countless girls to flirt with. Well used to the sight of robes and uniform attire of the female half of the Hogwarts student body, Sirius was thrilled at the way muggle girls dressed and reacted to his pre-drunken guiles.

Yes, pre-drunken. That was when Sirius was at the prime of his charisma. Across the line, insanity triggered (thanks James), and there was nothing to expect from him except for dangling narcissism and random projection of obscenity.

Presently Sirius stopped chuckling, un-pocketed his hands, uncrossed his legs, and proceed to exploit his less than obedient joints and muscles till he was at length on both feet and passably vertical to his erstwhile position. He ran a hand through his hair, which felt soft and perfectly coiffeured and fell over his eyes and shoulders the seriously Sirius way.

Good. His sense of narcissism was lovingly immune to whatever ungodly amount of alcohol he had swallowed. After giving his leather jacket a fondly pat, he used the same hand to fling a rude gesture at his double vision of the pub door, and then stumbled away.

o.O.O.O.o.O.O.O.o

'Lumush – Lu – Lemon – Lumos!'

One of Sirius's jeans pockets twitched, clicked, and then a bulb of light filtered through and lightened his half-unbuttoned shirt from waist down. Sirius paused; after a bout of over vigorous fumble that could have ended up severing his leather belt the Predatory Moony way, he got out his wand.

'Voilaaaaaa, my love.'

The street was dark and empty. The curtains in the neighbouring houses were drawn, the street posts extinguished. It wouldn't do to keep your wand hidden in such a street and in such an hour. And anyway, Remus wasn't with him. Given the time, Remus was probably asleep, curved up in his model tidiness of a bed, tired from standing in for James.

Blearily, Sirius wondered why he didn't just return to school after the afternoon's relatively sane adventure, and why he had ended up in a pub and drunk with the delirious abandonment of a rejected partner.

He shook his head till the vision of his wand became triple, and went his way.

It wasn't like he hadn't done anything like this before. Back in Fifth Year, when James was in the heat of his Lily Chasing and Remus was swamped with Prefect duties and O.W.L revision, Sirius had dragged a protesting Peter out to a muggle pub. However, Peter was no competitive companion when it came to competitive shenanigans, and four shots of some spicy muggle whisky was enough to send him into a coma.

And then Sirius was left in pretty much the same situation like he was now, and he had downed probably enough to fuel a lorry, bewailing meanwhile the absence of James and Remus in his then mid-teen glum.

James was his best mate, most faithful comrade-in-arms and competitive enough counterpart in terms of drinking, and that was why Sirius craved his company. Remus, well, quite the contrast in every aspect. He would probably just sit there and frown and then act as the makeshift werewolf stretcher, tender and ultimately babysitter.

That being possible, however, Sirius was sure he wouldn't drink that much if Remus was indeed with him. Their chemistry was different. Unique, even: Sirius knew he could sit with Remus for at least one hour without blowing or preparing to blow something up, and could still feel quite happy; with James, well, they at least needed an Imperio-ed Snape to perform gymnastics in tights and gartered stockings to keep them entertained.

'Oh my muddy squishy paws.'

Sirius said out loud, his eyes having caught or assumed they caught something remarkable enough to break his muse. He paused and held his wand at arm's length, illuminating as best as he could the thing that caught and revived his inebriated attention.

He was standing at the entrance of a large storage sort of house, the front door thrown wide open, the interior pitch black. Sirius could smell petrol and something wild and metallic. His blood tingled; he rushed in.

His wand light fell on a vehicle, then another, and another. Through the heavy drape of alcoholic intoxication he recalled the sight of muggle teenagers racing in these four-wheelers earlier in the afternoon. There were two-wheelers as well, jet black and majestically cool. Sirius ran a hand over the spotless windshield of one car, imaging the four Marauders seated within, racing at broomstick speed in the heart of the Forbidden Forest.

What a sensation it would evoke! They would be hailed as the Coolest Four The School Has Ever Seen. And they had to add some magic tricks to the car to make it even cooler: they'll paint it the Griffindor red and gold; they'll charm it to spew profanity and exhaust whenever a Slytherin passes by; they'll give it the honk of a lion's roar, make it fly and breathe fire through its engine; they'll feast and play chess and camp inside the car and charm the seats into palace-standard beds…

The delicious visions bubbled in Sirius's mind like Slughorn's Smuggest-To-Date Polyjuice Potion; and he was not surprised to hear himself sigh with longing. In mounting excitement he toured the whole place, marvelling at every car and its respective interior, visualising possibilities his alcohol-loaded brain could assemble in the wildest of fashions.

At length he retreated to the entrance, throwing his wand above his head. He could see the vehicles gleam under the wand light: black, white, beige, navy blue, crimson red, all shining and merging together into one prismatic ball, one spherical interior of a kaleidoscope. He was double-visioning again: the edge of the light ball was growing fuzzy and threatened to tear a chunk right out of itself –

'Bugger!'

Sirius's wand slipped out of his hand, extinguished, and fell soundlessly to his feet. Cursing, he folded himself down to ankle level and began to grope. His hands trembled and felt incredibly hot against the damp kerb. Either the alcohol or his excitement was working his anatomy into some sort of pandemonium.

His fingers brushed over a long, thin something and held it tight almost desperately. There was a firework of prismatic sparks shooting up from the tip of his wand; he blinked in the sudden burst of light, and saw the sparks showering down a long, hulky shadow several yards to the garage door. Apparently he had aimed his wand at the thing in a blur of coincidence.

The sparks sizzled for a while and vanished. Bemused, Sirius rediscovered his capability to mutter 'lumos' without tripping his tongue over his incisors, and hurried to the victimised thing. In the aftermath of his excitement he was almost sober. Recycling his manners? Yes, probably.

A pregnant 'sorry' was drowned beneath a gasp as he saw what the thing was.

A motorcycle. Long, hefty, jet-black and majestically cool, it stood in such an angle that its one side was almost horizontal. It was impossible to overlook such a beauty in any case whatsoever.

For the first time that night, Sirius admitted he had been quite a bit drunk.

Yet he did not bother himself with further wondering. Sure, he didn't see it when he first came up to the garage, but now he did and the rest could just bugger off and screw themselves senseless. The thing is, Sirius now found himself craving a motorcycle more than he craved a car. He circled the motorcycle like the Grim circled its sure prey and, for Merlin knows why, refrained himself from throwing a leg over it and riding it straight away.

Recycling his manners? Sure, and damn it.

o.O.O.O.o.O.O.O.o

'The pros of being disowned,' said Sirius loudly to James, who had at last condescended to reappear in his own dorm, 'is that you can strut about a free man and jolly well fork out every scrapple of gold for anything you want!'

James scowled, though his face ('thy love-slapped spanner of a face,' declared Sirius earlier in the morning as an improvised salute at the sight of his best mate) lost none of its radiance. 'You bet, Black. I _am_ the legitimate heir to the Potter fortune, and I can jolly well fork out for whatever I want.'

Sirius snorted. 'Nope, family deer. You are chained to your wife and your future offspring, and you have to worry about their welfare 'stead of galloping back into my shiny boots.'

Remus snorted. Not that he felt partial to imitating Sirius, the loud prat and permanent ten-year-old at heart despite the height and physique and more-than-dashing handsomeness. It's just that he had nothing whatsoever to contribute when Sirius began to brag about stuff that only James could relate to. In this case, wealth.

He peered over his newspaper at the pair of wrestling black-haired boys, ending up with Sirius transforming into Padfoot and slobbering over James's face till the latter lost his newly-acquired Poise of Maturity and began screaming blasphemies staccato-ing from 'yuck' to 'eeeerrrrrpooohhh.'

Remus cleared his throat and refastened his eyes to his newspaper. Stag or dog, those two are just primitive juveniles in adult skins.

A tiny column at the corner caught his attention.

'Merlin,' he muttered.

'What?' came James's voice.

'Ooooorf?' came Si-Padfoot's.

Remus glanced over in the vicinity of Sirius's bed, where James, kneeling and with hands tangled in Padfoot's heavy muzzle, turned his head in pretty much Padfoot's fashion at Remus.

Remus laughed. Despite the sensational news he just read, the scene in front of him was acutely hilarious.

With a faint pop, Padfoot disappeared, and Sirius, not waiting for James to register his mother hen position over the now human protagonist of his friend, wrenched himself free and lunged in a canine lurch at Remus.

'What's up? A discount of your favourite books, Moony?'

Remus raised his eyebrows, barely flinching as long arms that sported black fur a second ago wrapped now unceremoniously around his neck. His cat's face looked worried; the glint in his eyes was one of catty suspicion.

'It happened the night you were out, Sirius.'

Sirius unstuck his eyes from Remus's face and took the newspaper.

Sensation: Muggle's Motorcycle Appears Sentient

RITA SKEETER –

Morning, Wizarding World, this is Rita Skeeter reporting from Achmore(1), a small muggle town you probably never heard of.

Not now, though. Whoever says nothing interesting even happens in the muggle world have to set off eating their own head(2). Yester-morning, a Mr Tillman from the local fire insurance company was hospitalised after a most mysterious encounter with his own motorcycle, which, according to Mr Tillman, 'raised its front wheel at me like a mauling canine.'

'It was weird,' said Tillman, secured in his ward and sporting a pair of heavily bandaged arms. 'I mean, my bike was normal when I rode it home the day before. Then in the morning, when I went out and neared it, it just growled at me – yes, actually growled like a large dog – and its handlebars pricked up like a dog's ears. At first I thought I was seeing things, so I laughed it off and went up for my morning ride. But it wriggled and growled again and, and it threw me off!'

Enough of Tillman's hysterical recount here. Anyway, a number of muggle authority bodies have been contacted. The police (uniformed, pot-bellied muggles in insanely bright yellow plastic cardigans who patrol the streets with wrist-girthed metal wands tucked behind their backs) in particular are very concerned. They suspect it to be a failed robbery or vandalism, but are at a loss to offer a plausible explanation to the motorcycle's 'appallingly sentient' behaviour.

An inspector, who declines to reveal his name, says Mr Tillman's tale is no flim-flam at gaining public attention. 'I decided to take a closer look at the bike. I was a pace in front of it when it suddenly span around and spew exhaust right into my face. If anything, it appeared to enjoy mocking me.'

As my sweet readers would imagine, the Ministry apparently suspects the motorcycle to have been magically tempered with. Members from the Department of the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office, disguised as staff from the muggle automobile maintenance office, have contacted Mr Tillman and showered him with apologies and promises to fix his motorcycle back to normal and free of charge.

'I don't care what you maintenance people do about that thing,' said the traumatized Tillman in reaction to the more than generous offer. 'I don't want to see that ruddy bike again. Take it away if you wish.'

Said motorcycle is currently tied up where it was, but is said to be under strict and surreptitious wizarding surveillance. It will be transported to the Ministry as late as tomorrow morning to be further examined.

'Merlin's juicy T-bone on a skewer,' muttered Sirius, unconsciously tightening his scarf of an arm around Remus's neck, 'no wonder you looked a bit off colour just now, Moony. Treating yourself to this Skeeter woman's prose immediately after breakfast really is not on.'

'Release – me – and – I'd – be – perfectly – fine –' Remus panted, almost digging his nails into Sirius's Siriusly sinewy arm. Sirius made a face, smirked, and did as he was told.

'This sounds like your doing, Sirius,' said an overlooked James from the foot of his bed. 'Going off pranking muggles, eh? I thought we've agreed to never resort to that unless our target Slytherins run short.'

'I do not!' Sirius threw up both hands, one elbow banging unceremoniously on the side of Remus's jaw along the way. 'Me, the most civilised wizarding civilian of all time? That was totally an accident – the motorbike affair, I mean. Plus, it's not like you have a mighty enough alibi dangling from your snout, Prongs. Everyone knows you were off with Lily Doe-Goddess Evans last night.'

'And Lily's the last one you'd expect to talk me into jinxing a muggle motorbike into behaving like a bottled-up Padfoot,' countered James, shoving his glasses up his nose and crossing his arms. To cap it off, he even gave his already bird's nest of a head a Lily-styled toss, making his glasses slide their way down the vicinity of his upper lip again.

'Quiet, lads,' came Remus's voice from somewhere under Sirius's hyperactive arm. This is it; this is when Remus's edge crawls out of its low-profile schoolboy disguise and clamps the unruly stag-and-dog duo down to prostrate submission. Sirius was seized with a strong itch to rant about different kinds of edges and their accordant appeals, but was treated to Remus's staidly disapproving scowl.

He slumped, 'all right, Moony.'

'All right what?'

'I confess.'

'Ah-ha!'

They both raised their eyebrows at a gleeful James, who just finished slapping his left hand a high five with his right, 'Padfoot's confessing his sinful sins. Finally! Go on Pads, I solemnly swear I won't laugh my antlers off.'

Sirius wished he had more hands. James obviously deserved more than two middle fingers. The berk.

'Right. I was out in town last night and had a drinking fit. Then, well, maybe I just imagined it, but I got kicked out of the bar and then I wandered off.'

'Pedestrian enough so far, huh,' James chimed in, looking impressively unimpressed. 'I want the climax.'

Sirius ignored him. 'Then I went to a garage – no, I didn't intend to go there. It just bumped into me, the garage. And I was excited 'cause there were loads of racing cars, as many as I could count with all four paws. Then I must have got lost for a while, 'cause my wand went out and when I picked it up it fired something at the motorbike. Fired on its own, mind. I thought I was just too smashed to figure it out. But I didn't mean to really jinx it!' his volume soared up at the skeptical look on Remus's face. 'I don't know what my wand did to that bike!'

Remus shrugged. 'It's obvious, isn't it? If Rita's report is any good, it seems that you have implanted part of your character into the bike. It growls at people; it brandishes its behind at authority figures. Do I need more hints, Sirius? That it tosses its imaginary fringe and winks its headlights at partially nude girls?'

Sirius perked up. 'Really, Moony? Do you really think I've created my two-wheeled shiny racing alter ego outside a plain muggle garage? Merlin's dotty boxers, I'm so, so very proud!'

He leapt away from Remus and reached for his muggle outfit.

'Where are you going?' asked Remus, his voice wary.

'To rescue Sirius the Motor!' said Sirius pompously, peeling off his robes and flinging the jet-black leather jacket over his shoulders. 'That poor muggle bloke's abandoned him, didn't you hear? I can't let the Ministry abduct him now that he's my petrol-drinking familiar. Coming?'

James shook his head like a rattler. 'Nah, mate. I got to go to Lily this ev –'

'Nobody asks your opinion, family deer. Come with me, all right, Moony? You know how unpredictable I could be, don't you? You don't want to shy away from the coolest rescue mission in the whole history of the whole universe, eh? eh?'

Remus eyed him like he was a yipping puppy that couldn't find its own tail. Sirius grinned: Remus really looks adorable there, all quiet inner battles and inertly pursed lips and liquid irresistible edge. Sirius knew he had won. James's Head Boyish sense of duty has returned; Remus has no reason to refuse Sirius.

o.O.O.O.o.O.O.O.o

'Where's my wand, Moony?'

'Didn't you just put it in your pocket?'

'How do you know – oh, right. It's still there. I thought you've confiscated it.'

'That's a tempting idea, you know.'

Sirius grinned down the back of Remus's neck as though it was a particularly fairytale-like landscape. 'Speaking of tempting, Moony, you know there's a muggle children's story about a Mr Gray Wolf who falls for a red-haired little girl?'

Remus rolled his eyes, 'you mean the muggle children's story in which a gray wolf cons and eats Little Red Riding Hood. Yes, I know all about that.'

Sirius's eyes widened, a portrait of dawning epiphany. 'Is that the authentic scenario? I always thought my version a bit flawed, you know. I mean, how could a wolf fall for a red-haired human lass? That's Prongsie's forte. Wolfies like you always prefer stronger, fiercer and sexier candidates like – ouch!'

Sirius hopped where he was and grabbed both Remus's shoulders for support. 'You heartless werewolf!' he hissed, freeing one hand to cradle his abused left shin, but lost his balance and threw instead his entire stature plus weight over Remus.

'You lost, Moony! Your penalty is piggybacking me to my garage. Now.'

Remus snorted. '_Your _garage's only a handful of yards away, isn't it?'

Sirius uprooted his chin from Remus's shoulder and rolled up one hand before one eye. What he saw of the said distance did not satisfy him.

'Why must I ditto you every time you make an observation, Clever Moony?'

'Well, I suppose it has something to do with your practically hanging all over me without my consent. Your conscience reckons a bit of dittoing would prevent me from going on a strike.'

Sirius gasped. 'Striky Moony, how scary! Prongs would be proud. He spent so many years trying to let loose your vicious alter ego.'

Presently they were on the very pavement that fringed the garage. It was again well past midnight; stars were again decorating the deep blue sky like the enchanted ceiling in the Great Hall and like the little patch of freckles on Remus's face. Sirius put his weight on his own feet and craned his neck to count Remus's freckles, but only managed to catch a glimpse of his profile before Remus almost deliberately stepped away. Soundless. And catlike. The tip of his wand gleamed like the eyes of a cat.

'Why don't you take out your wand, Sirius? It's very dark here.'

Sirius took the cue to feign a scowl. 'Prefect Moony wouldn't allow me, would he? He says Padfoot must behave himself, keep his wand out of sight, and store up his recyclable manners and such.'

Remus turned to regard Sirius with quiet amusement. Sirius wanted to point out that Remus was a threat to the cliché scary shots that generally involved a dark surrounding, a thin strip of light that stole up from below and a rather pale face being partially lit by said light. For one thing, Remus's face simply looks too deliciously harmless to pose this.

And he _is_ most definitely smiling. Too much light for the survival of scariness.

'I forgot the Grim has light bulbs for eyes,' said Remus airily. 'Either that or you've recently and furtively done something that earned you ten layers of glare from McGonagall. Otherwise you wouldn't give a barky damn about what I asked you to adhere to.'

Sirius shook his head. 'What a parental notion. "If you're behaving, you must've done something fishy." Now tell me, Moony, how long have you been parenting some lucky bloke's kids without me ever noticing?'

'Oh, about seven years now. And considering that barely twenty-four hours ago one of my wards freshly got himself smashed and jinxed an innocent muggle motorbike, I suppose I'm not a very good parent.'

'Nah you aren't. Your wards have spent seven long years pranking the whole school upside down and you never pretty much succeed at pulling your reins. But anyway, what do you make of my two-wheeled shiny alter ego? I reckon he's around here somewhere, a bit close to the gate and every inch the zenith of Glossy Sexiness.'

'Or Gross Narcissism?' suggested Remus, moving his wand hand about so that light zoomed from one corner to the next. 'It's there, behind the police tapes. Getting tagged as a suspicious and dangerous object? Hello Sirius's alter ego, you're in with the right company there.'

He went up. Soundless. Like a stalking cat. Sirius, catering to his no less stalkish inner canine, followed Remus with a typical Sirius saunter. He likes it when Remus appears so attentive to everything he's asked to undertake (or coerced into undertaking, as is usually the case.) Sirius paused by the garage gate and watched Remus approach the police tape, come to a halt, and turn to treat him to an honestly murderous eye.

'Why exactly am I doing this for you, Sirius Black? I think I'm about to cross a line, _here_.'

'You are, Moony. And it's a grossly broad line, painted poisonously yellow and with big, fat POLICE printed all over it. Now listen to the old hand. When you run into a line like that, don't cross it. Tear it into confetti and blow them apart, or they'll wind up jamming people's nostrils and stop the mucus flow. And if that happens, you know your whole system's gonna clog up and the flow's bound to leak out where it oughtn't to.'

Remus looked like he'd been forced down three goblets of Bubotuber pus. 'I wish someone could jam _someone _'s overly-graphic mind track.'

'Whose? Prongs's? Fair point there, Moony. Prongs's been having those o-so-very-vividly-graphic fantasies over our charming Head Girl for ages. It's a sinful vice, I grant.' And to perfect this image of wise accusation, Sirius pasted his palm to the garage gate, halfway on finishing his stance of a seriously Sirius leaning, only to fall victim to the unbeaten inertia and topple right over with a loud crash.

'Merlin's crimson G-string, this gate's unlocked!'

Remus laughed. Having Sirius around is like riding through a rollercoaster of counter-expectancies, most of which tends to yield hilarities of sporadic levels, categories and causes. There are moments of tension as well, moments when Remus sees breathing as something like a crisis when Sirius towers over him and fixates him with a scarily intense eye, moments when Remus wants to avoid Sirius, body and soul and aura and shiny hair, at all costs, moments when Remus decides that Sirius is no dashier than the hem of Moaning Myrtle's sodden robes, and moments when Remus thinks Sirius deserves prickled Flobberworms for appetizers and the combined snogs from Rita Skeeter and Hagrid's thriving colony of Blast-Ended Skewts for afters.

Right now by a muggle garage and at the dead of night, however, Sirius merely seems to deserve the backfire of what makes him, well, Sirius.

'When you've done laughing and such, Remus Lupin, I'll have you know the life-threatening perils of bemocking a seriously provoked Grim,' came Sirius's voice somewhere on the ground, behind the garage gate and half an octave lower with well-mixed in savagery.

Remus dismissed the threat with another chuckle and returned to the police tape and the motorcycle beyond. He knew the best comeback was to pointedly ignore Sirius, and ignore him he did. It was that simple.

o.O.O.O.o.O.O.O.o

'Why did you take my alter ego the muggle way, Moony?'

Sirius patted the now liberated motorcycle with something close to maternal fondness in his eyes, 'me and him, we both are not impressed, you know. I'd prefer "accio Sirius's alter ego."'

Remus took his time to dust his trousers, straighten his shirt, and give his chin a casual scratch. Then he turned to Sirius.

'Rita Skeeter said your alter ego is under secretive and surreptitious wizarding surveillance. If you accio anything or try to blast the police tape away, you'll get caught and perhaps sent to Azkaban.'

'And holiday there till the end of my dashy existence, yes,' Sirius waved one dismissive hand as if Remus had just suggested that the moon travels around the Earth. 'So you decide to listen to that Skeeter wench 'stead of me. Moony, Moony, your greatest weakness is hidden in the shape of the entire opposite gender, however horrible your choice subject from said gender group might be. Soon you'll meet the same end as Prongsie and get domesticated into a wolfy-skinned kitty. And then, me and Sirius Two-Wheels will have to travel on our own, won't we, eh, my love?'

He placed his hand between the motorcycle's two handlebars and gave it a scratch. A distinctly puppyish sound rose from the motor's engine.

'Seems you've got yourself a handy pet there,' remarked Remus in the same dry voice he always used when things like Sirius's study habits or girl-stalking was cast as topic for conversation over breakfast.

Sirius grinned his acknowledgement and took the cue to really look at Remus. Even in muggle clothes, Remus looks determinedly and almost endearingly schoolboyish. Something to do with his attentive eye, his ink-stained fingers, or his immaculate and forever buttoned shirt. Or all. Or it's simply because it is Remus, and Remus is synonym with schoolboy, and Sirius neither can nor wants to define him any other way.

'I always want a pet, you know,' said Sirius airily. 'A unique one, mind. One with wolfish or Grim-ish charms that I find too sexy to resist. Turns out a motor's nothing like that, but I suppose my spells have managed to enhance some of those ideal traits. Now if you like, you could help me make him even sexier. When he's under water, he's a submarine; when he's in midair, he can zoom about like a raging buzzard. Imagine how it would feel like to be able to play Quidditch on a motorbike! Prongs's antlers will fall off in awe, and all the Slytherins will land on their tailbones with their jaws dangling off their ankles!'

'Charmed, my revolutionary hero,' said Remus with a sidelong glance at Sirius's profile. 'People will remember you as the first ever Quidditch player, sans broomstick and disguised as a third-class motor racer. People will chronicle your glory as long as the united length of all parchment in the world goes. But before that, if you don't mind, I think I'm going back to catch on some sleep.'

Sirius made a bow. 'Shall I escort you to your cosy domicile, Mr Moony? It's a dashy lovely late spring night. It's perfect for a ride and a roam.'

Remus eyed the motorcycle with misgiving. He knew wouldn't mind if it suddenly flicked roasted peas at him or swung on its hind wheel and began a stripe dance. It's Sirius's bike, after all. Sirius is hardly averse to pranking his fellow Marauders ('strengthen the interprankship'). And Sirius is acting so _devastatingly _chivalrous. Well, maybe Remus could reckon with a bumpy enough journey back to his bed without sporting mollusks out of his hair or waltzing to the barely-there tune of Sirius Is Our Sex God against his will.

He climbed onto the back seat and found himself face to face with Sirius's leather jacket. The back of it, to be more precise. The scent of shampoo, Cologne and wildness engulfed him. His heart lurched up his throat and then tumbled down some indeterminate distance beneath his diaphragm. He decided it was because he wasn't accustomed to facing people's back. Especially not Sirius's.

'Er, I'm, I – let's go, then.'

The nerves of him. Honest, people like Sirius Black should be banned from public spectacle if their backs or other body parts turn out detrimental to the proper function of other people's mouths.

'Where are your front paws, Moony?' came Sirius's voice from the other side of the leather jacket. 'If you don't hold onto something you'll fall off. I don't feel like killing off my engine just to pick up a tumbling damsel. Muggle filmmakers call it a blooper. Me thinks it's better called an ow-and-oooops.'

Remus's arms unpinned themselves against his sides and came to cross in front of his chest. It's only a fraction of Sirius's many notorious vices, calling Remus 'damsel.' Just like James is called 'fairy four-eyed bint' before Lily makes it a maxim that JAMES POTTER YOU FLIPPING TOERAG! is more forward considering the majority of circumstances.

He stifled a yawn.

'I didn't help make your bed for nothing, you know.'

The words came out of him like an ultimatum. His hands unfolded themselves and came to rest on either side of Sirius's waist as though it was a lopsided portrait that needed righting.

'That's it. Now I wonder where Mr Moony wants to go, the school kitchen, or Honeydukes, or the school kitchen and Honeydukes?'

'I think we've finished discussing this, Sirius.'

'Oh, right. Then it's the Shrieking Shack. I think I remembered some mentioning of a bed.'

'Yeah, whatever, wherever. Move it, if you please.'

Sirius grinned and twisted down the grip.

(1): I attempt and suck at guesswork. I know Hogwarts is located somewhere in (northern?) Scotland. Then I Googled towns in Scotland and picked this one at random. I'm no British and I apologise if my grope on your lands turns out too wild or far-fetching.

(2): It's been two years since I last picked up my Harry Potter canon from Book Four on. I totally couldn't remember Rita Skeeter's exact writing style so I made it up in as lousy a fashion as I can, and injected this head-eating little joke as quoted from Mr Grimwig from Oliver Twist (not that you'd expect to make any logical connection from this *grins*). Kind of a disclaimer, right? :p


End file.
